Like my many thoughts of Nephele, thoughts of my father are never far from my mind. Why he went to the fields the day he died—alone and in the dead of winter—will forever remain a mystery, as will the question that might haunt me until my last breath: If the blade is so all-powerful, why didn’t he use it to save us? To save Nephele? He had possession of the knife for years—a god killer, an immortal slayer, a divine weapon. Never once did he use it against the Frost King.
Mother leans over my shoulder and unties her cloak as she studies the knife with a wary gleam in her eyes. The scent of cloves, fallen leaves, and smoky coldness floats from her skin and clothes.
“You’re sharpening that old thing?” she asks, her voice uneasy.
I sign an innocent reminder.“For the apples.”
She gives me a look. Mother never cared for Father’s tales of finding the God Knife along the Malorian seashore. She alwaysshushedhim when I’d ask him to tell me the story. Though she’s kept the blade hidden away since its rediscovery, just as Father would’ve wanted her to do, she still doesn’t believe in its myth. She claims the weapon holds no power.
ButIbelieve it does. Because Ifeelit.
“Carry on, then.” Her voice is still edged with that same unnerved tone as she cocks a suspicious brow. “But we have far better knives for peeling apples, Raina.”
As she turns away, I hold the God Knife’s dull, black edge up to the candlelight. In truth, I need the blade sharp enough to penetrate thick leather and even thicker sinew, and I only trust one pair of hands to make sure it can. Unfortunately, those hands aren’t mine.
I have to get the knife to Finn. He usually works with iron mined near the Mondulak Range, certainly not bone, buthishands are the only ones I trust with this. I just need an excuse for why taking the time to sharpenthisknife is necessary, because Mother is right. We have plenty of other blades for the day’s work. I’ve no reason to be so focused on this one—none she’ll believe anyway. And it’s not as if I can explain my plan. Something tells me she wouldn’t be too keen to find out that her daughter plans to kidnap the Witch Collector at knifepoint today.
Mother hangs her cloak by the door and crosses to the hearth to pour a mug of mulled apple cider. When she returns to my side, she watches over my shoulder as I position Father’s whetstone on a piece of oiled cloth. She once said the knife isn’t made of bone. After all, what bone is black as night and cold as ice?
But it’s bone. God bone. Not flint or steel. I’m sure of it. Something deep inside that old marrow vibrates with every pass across the whetstone, as though I’m slowly coaxing it back to life.
More sweat beads on my brow as I work, sliding the edge along the stone with careful measure. What if I damage it? Can god bonebedamaged?
What really worries me is the obvious. What if the Witch Collector bests me today when I hold this blade to his throat?
Though I’ve prepared for weeks now, my hands still tremble at the thought of standing against him, enough that I falter in my work. Bone catches against stone and nicks my fingertip. I gasp and suck the wound.
Gods’ death. OnlyIwould somehow accidentally kill myself with the very weapon that could save me.
“Raina, be careful.” Mother sets her mug aside and grabs my hand, studying the cut. She touches my chin, tenderness softening her eyes. “I know you consider this knife a connection to your father, but maybe Finn should have a look at the blade if you’re so determined to use it. I’d prefer your beautiful hands intact.”
My pulse quickens. I’ve seen twenty-four winters, yet I feel like a child again. Like a little girl hiding something from her mother. But this is the perfect moment. I couldn’t have designed it any better if I’d tried.
“Finn is probably on his way to the shop,”I sign.“I will take it to him, and I will finish the apples before noon. I promise.”
“Go.” She smiles, though it seems to require great effort. “But don’t be long. The harvest supper won’t prepare itself.”
Relieved, I shove up from the stool, throw on my cloak, and wrap the knife in a piece of animal skin before heading toward the door.
“Raina,” Mother calls. I glance over my shoulder as she crosses the small distance between us. “You try so hard to hide it,” she says, “yet a mother knows her child. Do not let your loathing of the Witch Collector and the Frost King lead you—or us—to trouble. If you’re going to promise me anything, promise me that.”
A breath rushes from my lungs as her indigo eyes dart to the bundled knife in my hands, as if she knows my every intention, and guilt and shame squeeze my heart for what I’m about to do. What Imustdo.
I lean in, kiss her soft cheek, and lie anyway.
“I promise,”I sign, and slip into the cold, gray light of day.
The Owyns’ blacksmith shop sits on the eastern outskirts of Silver Hollow, near the orchard and vineyard. It’s a long walk, but I’m brimming with enough nervous energy that I should arrive quickly.
As I make my way across the green, I memorize the village’s every detail. Frost glistens on the thatch of every cottage and hut, and the last thin breaths of nighttime fires curl from the chimneys. Gardens are dying back, and the wildflowers lining the path to the fields have turned to colorless husks. Soon, snow will pile on the eaves and creep knee-deep before every door, and life here in the vale will grow bitter and difficult.
I think a lot about how much I hate this place, but the truth is that I only hate my circumstances—not having a choice. Because life could be worse. I could live in a barbaric clan in the Eastland Territories or deep in the sweltering Summerland sands, or I could live along the Northland Coast, constantly worrying about the war and danger across the sea. Instead, I live in a peaceful village filled with good people—Witch Walkers, halflings, and those with no magickal ability at all.
The guardians of Frostwater Wood.
Our Witch Walkers, along with those from the villages of Hampstead Loch, Penrith, and Littledenn, serve as the second line of defense in the Northlands, second only to the Northland Watch, a combat-trained legion that protects our southern borders. Hour after hour, Witch Walkers’ voices carry magick into the ether along Frostwater’s rim to reinforce a barrier we keep intact at all costs.
I’ve walked that boundary many times, helping to strengthen the protection with my silent song. To a stranger, the barrier is nothing more than a shimmer in the trees, like dew sparkling on a spider’s web in morning light. But it’s much more than that. It’s an impenetrable fortress with a single guarded entry point to the west, near Hampstead Loch, through which the king and his entourage—namely his Witch Collector—are said to travel.
